Ghosthunters
by manucassa
Summary: Vincent and Tifa have something in common.


Maybe it was the constant chill, or the shadow of the mountains, or maybe it was the people, who led small lives and knew no more; but whatever the reason, Nibelheim always looked like a ghost town. It was more so for the long-haired woman who pulled her motorbike up to the front gate—for her, the town had been dead for fourteen years, and it could never be revived. She did not enjoy visiting.

She leaned the bike against the side of a house and pulled her gloves tighter, a nervous gesture that most people mistook for determination. As she strode through the little town, ignoring the faces peering around curtains and over gates at the stranger, she occupied herself by wondering what he would think of her—her hair, now past her waist; her clothes, more conservative than they had ever been. These considerations were pointless, she knew: Vincent would not care.

The mansion's gate was propped open with rocks, and the front doors were unlocked. Broken furniture cluttered the great hall; the rugs were faded, paintings askew, mirrors shattered. Dust floated in the gray light coming from the upstairs windows.

Fear and worry settled heavy on her heart as she opened each door and found each room dark and empty. Had the place been robbed? Ha he moved on? Had he died?

One room, the first bedroom she came to, settled her worry: it was clean and neat; the bed was made, and gleaming guns hung from a rack on the wall.

Back out in the hall, she called: "Vincent?" The mansion answered in her voice, and when the echo died away, all was silent. He wasn't home.

She returned to the middle of the town, with its broken cobblestones and handcarts, empty despite the midday sun.

Children's laughter suddenly interrupted the stillness. She turned; a group of them was galloping down from a mountain trail, giggling and spinning and playing ancient nameless games without rules, and in their midst was a tall man carrying firewood over both shoulders.

He was barefoot, and he wore rough brown clothing with suspenders; his hair looked short, but as he turned his head, she saw that he had pulled it back in a low ponytail, as she had. His face had not changed since the day she had met him.

When they reached the town center, she caught his eye and merely smiled. He offered no reassurance, but bent and spoke to one of the children. They ran ahead, and disappeared behind a gate.

"How've you been?" she asked.

Vincent nodded. "Well. I help the people here, when they need it," he added, seeing her glance at the firewood. Tifa guessed from the way the children had acted around him that it was more often than that. "If you'll wait," he said, "I'll drop this off."

Tifa nodded her assent and watched as he went where the children had gone. When he came back, she was sitting on the edge of a crate, picking at the hem of her jacket. She looked up.

Vincent was giving her a scrutinizing look, tainted not with concern, but clinical and frightening. She liked to believe despite his eyes and pallor and coldness that he was gentle, but so often with him it was impossible to tell.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

Tifa cast a wary look around, as if hesitant to say anything in this mimicry of a town, full of actors and thieves of history. Vincent seemed to sense it, for he turned and started for the mountain path, and glanced back at her as if to say, follow me.

The trail was steep and straight, paved with dust and pebbles, and lined with rough mountain grass and violets. It had been as beautiful back when the world was a happy place, when her parents had been alive.

"I'm…looking for Cloud," she said, careful to keep her eyes on the rising trail. "He's been missing for—well, I haven't seen him in over a year. I've been all over, all the major cities, and I've written Barret and Shera and Yuffie, and they've…nobody's seen him. I feel like I've looked everywhere." She paused. "Except here."

Vincent cast his cold gaze over her, and back to the trail, as a man considering his reply. "I have not seen him," he said. "Not for many years."

The words crushed her, though she had expected no less. But Vincent kept walking, and she followed.

The mountain was a small one, but even so, the sun was setting behind them when they reached the top; the Corel valley below was dark, and beyond it, the mountain tops held on to the last rays of red-orange light.

"It's beautiful," she said, feeling that she should at least offer some thanks for the view.

Vincent sat down on a flat rock, one half-hearted shove from a fall of many hundreds of feet. "I once heard a story," he began, "from a man who had come in from the canyon."

Tifa drew hesitantly near the other side of the rock, and when he moved for her, she sat down.

"It's about a man who moves to a new town. He finds a job working on a farm, and he rents a room for himself and what little he has. The town is fine, and the people friendly, and he believes he is happy.

"One night he is out for a walk, enjoying the warm weather, and he sees a beautiful woman, more beautiful than he has ever seen. He knows immediately that he loves her. He tries to approach her, but she disappears behind a house, and he cannot find her, so he goes back to his room.

"The next night he returns to the place where he first saw her, and she is not there. He waits for an hour, and suddenly he feels a chill behind him; he turns around, and the woman is there, even more beautiful than before. He confesses his love for her, and the woman kisses him. 'Tell me that you love me,' he says. 'I will devote every day to making you happy.'

"But the woman says nothing. No matter what the man does, the woman just stands there and says nothing. When he tries to kiss her again, she smiles and fades away.

"He goes to a bar and asks if anyone has seen the beautiful woman, for he was just talking to her when she disappeared.

" 'It is the ghost,' say the townspeople. She waits for men to look upon her, and when they see her, they fall in love. Hers is a kiss of death; she does not take a man's life, but his soul. The ones she kisses will look for her until they die, and nothing will make them happy.'

"The man refuses to believe them, but the next day he leaves his job at the farm, telling the farmer that he must find the beautiful woman, his one true love.

"After a month, the owners of his room put his belongings out on the street, and though he often walks by them, he never claims them. He wastes away, wandering the streets, calling for the woman until his last day, as if he himself were a living ghost."

A hot tear fell unbidden down Tifa's cheek before she could blink it back.

When Vincent spoke again, his soft baritone was tinged with bitterness. "We two are fools."

Tifa wiped her eyes quickly, but her sight was still blurry.

Vincent got up, tapped on the rock with his claw-hand—she had almost forgotten it was there—and started for the trail. The sunlight was gone now; the view was no more than clouds and stars and the black mountains rising in the distance, and it was cold. She hurried to catch up to him.

They walked in silence until they reached the center of town, which was all but dead, except for the crickets. Vincent turned to her. "Will you keep moving tonight?" he asked.

"I—yes," said Tifa, grateful that he understood.

He nodded once. "Very well. If you ever find yourself in Nibelheim, my…home is open to you."

"Thank you," she said, and paused to fiddle with her gloves. "Take care of yourself."

Vincent nodded again, and turned, and walked away. She went back to her motorbike and looked over her shoulder, but the mansion was dark, and no ghost stood waiting for her.


End file.
